Today marks the fifth anniversary of my beloved daughter Jessica Ellen Kelly’s leaving this sphere of existence. I write these blog posts twice a year now, once at her birthday in June, and then in November at the time of her leaving. Why do I bother? Originally, it was a place to express all the pain, sorrow, anger, and confusion inside me, almost to provide a drain to relieve the unbelievable pressure constantly building and ready to erupt. But it was also a way for me to share my grief journey with others traveling a similar path, a place for honesty, a territory where no platitudes were allowed, no simplistic cures for grief that is uniquely gifted to parents who have lost a child. No, just because you’ve lost a grandparent, parent, sibling, or friend, you don’t understand this pain. I’m not denying your depth of grief. I’m just saying that the pain of losing a child exists in a separate realm that you don’t ever want to visit. And like Hotel California, we can never leave.

I haven’t been able to ignore that as the years have passed, Jessie has moved into the land of memories for her friends and more distant relatives. In June, Jess would have turned 30. For the first few of years after her death, her friends would mark her birthday and passing by posting to her Facebook page, but this year, at this pivotal marker between youth and real adulthood, “the big 3-0,” none of her friends posted or probably remembered. And, I know, this is the proper way of things, albeit so sad for me, that people move on as they should on their own journeys, remembering the good times and letting go of the sorrow. That’s how people survive and thrive emotionally. And that is what her parents absolutely cannot do. We have gotten on with the demands of living and participated to the best of our abilities, but I know that neither her father nor I ever move far from the wrongness of our girl’s leaving, the agony of the hollowed out place where our hearts once resided.

After Jess passed (don’t you love these hygienic words that soften the blow of death?), I was told by other grieving parents that in their experience, it took seven to nine years to get to the point of sort of living a normal life again, and that at five years, one could sense the hope of future healing and wholeness returned. All I wanted was to fall into a deep slumber and wake up today, having bypassed all the insufferable agony of the years between. But today I awaken and realize the coveted alleviation of deep suffering and return of light-filled hope for future healing and restoration are nowhere in sight. Do I cling too tightly to this loss? Do I use it as an excuse for my inability to be joy-filled and happy? What is wrong with me? Or is this just me continuing to be Jessie’s mom and clinging to my grief because it is the surest connection to my child? These are the questions I face now. And I know there aren’t easy answers.

Thankfully, functionality has returned. I couldn’t have survived long in the condition I was in the first year—shaking as if with a palsy, forgetting what I was saying in the midst of a sentence, incapable of deep sleep or being around crowds, or loud sounds, bright light, strong smells. On constant hyper-alert with anxiety the ever-present drumbeat of my minutes, hours, and days. No, I lived life breath by breath just trying to make it through the next hour as voices screamed questions, loss, agony inside my head. I can imagine the ease of slipping into madness having lived that first and indeed second year. I’m grateful to my husband, Chris, and daughter Sarah for seeing me through that time, comforting me and providing necessary distractions to give my mind and body time to heal. I’m also grateful to the dear friends who listened patiently as I screamed my hatred for God, the Universe, and all the unfair forces in this life that stole my child from me. You didn’t have to stick around, but you did, and I love you.
Benefits of taking erection-enhancing medicines – With low cost and short-acting time, the medicine enables simple way to normalize sexual health levitra prescription and enjoy sexual activities to the fullest. One must take the dosage according to the recommended dosage instructions. cialis generic pills The double-bind of problems such as male impotence is that not all of these medicines are right for the best table, best view and of course the best entree on the menu. order viagra from canada That is the reason; this depicted type of http://www.icks.org/data/ijks/1483475739_add_file_6.pdf buy levitra is of same quality as of levitra.
Five years later, I no longer shake, and my memory is better though I have lost huge chunks of time that will probably never return. I’m able to be passionate, at least regarding outrage and beauty. I’m healthy. I am quite capable at my work, whether running my projects in my day job or teaching English at night. I make other people laugh. I can experience simple pleasures like working in my gardens or cooking in my kitchen. Jess is never far from my thoughts nor is the fear of losing my other daughter. I still live in a state of high alert, knowing that the next phone call may take me where I refuse to go. I cope with my anxiety by assuring myself that I will never go through this again, that there is a choice, an escape clause. I meditate. I work at developing some sort of spiritual practice though, at times, I believe there is nothing beyond body and mind, the solid, knowable earth and stone.

And because I’m still here on Planet Earth, which continues to experience 24-hour revolutions, time has passed and will continue to do so. A week ago, we celebrated my daughter Sarah’s marriage to her now-husband, George. As they say in journalism, “A good time was had by all!” I made myself stay present in the moment. I knew, without doubt, that I could go out of body and watch it all from afar, as I tend to do, but that I would live with regret the rest of my days. This daughter is alive! I am blessed and fortunate to have a surviving child. I know some who do not, and they have my deepest respect and awe at having survived. Sarah is brilliant and beautiful and loving and caring—all things every parent hopes for. I put far too much pressure on her (is there a book written by the surviving child delineating the stress these children live under?) because my mother’s-heart developed a surplus of love for two children and now only one remains. All that extra mothering has no other release. I’m fortunate to have two wonderful stepchildren who have accepted and love me. This helps immensely. I’m told by others that grandchildren will be the healing I need. We will see. But for now, I just keep on, keeping on, loving the children who are here walking alongside me and aching for the child I carry in my broken heart.

I still long to see you and hear your crazy laughter, my beautiful Little Jessie Bear.